Page 19 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Selene shakes her head, managing a small smile that does little to conceal her unease.
He sighs, turning his attention back to the window. “It’s a little… provincial,” he admits. “Compared to Roselune Abbey. It may take some getting used to.”
“I’m prepared,” she replies, her tone steadier than she feels.
As the carriage turns onto the long, winding drive, Ebonrose Hall comes into view, emerging from behind a screen of ancient trees. The house is larger than Selene had expected. It rises against the landscape with an understated grandeur. Though far simpler than Roselune Abbey, there’s a certain quiet dignity in its muted elegance. Stone walls and ivy-draped towers reach skyward, their grey edges softened by time. For a brief moment, Selene feels a sense of relief. Despite its subdued appearance, it feels as though it could be a home.
But as they draw closer, her initial impression shifts. Signs of age and neglect become increasingly apparent. Shutters hang askew, ivy creeps unchecked across the walls, and patches of bare masonry peek through where paint has long since faded. The once-proud lawns are overgrown with weeds and scattered wildflowers, while the crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels seems unnaturally loud in the surrounding stillness.
When the carriage finally comes to a stop, Dorian steps out first and offers his hand, his expression apologetic, as though bracing for judgement. Selene allows him to help her down, pausing to take in the hall from this closer angle.
It doesn’t improve her impression. Provincial isn’t the right word. She might have thought it abandoned if she didn’t know any better.
Dorian glances towards the manor. “Well,” he says, “here we are.”
Three figures hurry out of the doorway and arrange themselves on the steps. They are late, of course, but without afootman to run ahead and announce their imminent arrival, it is to be expected.
Selene glances around, waiting for the rest of the servants to emerge and greet them. An estate this size should have at least twenty staff members, possibly as many as fifty during the busy seasons. But apart from the three figures now standing before them, there is no sign of anyone else.
One of the figures, a towering man who leans heavily on a cane, bows to them first. He has the look of someone better suited to soldering than serving, though his practical, slightly worn clothing doesn’t match the strict uniform Selene would have expected. His face is rough-hewn, like weathered stone, softened only by the warm smile that reaches his eyes.
“Welcome, Lady Selene,” he says with a slight bow. “I’m Roan Rookwood. I serve as the butler and, er… cook here.”
Cook?The word startles her. One cook for a house this size—and a man, at that? The position of cook is almost always held by a woman. Not that the ability is beyond men, but it is… unconventional.
Rookwood’s grin widens as he catches her expression, as if he’s read her mind and can’t help but find her shock amusing.
Next to him, a woman of similar age steps forward, her dark auburn hair twisted into an elaborate bun. Her sharp green eyes meet Selene’s with a glint of curiosity.
“Ariella Everfrost, housekeeper,” Dorian introduces her.
She bobs a quick curtsey. “My Lady.” She smiles at Selene the way Rookwood does, but her gaze shifts quickly to Dorian, as if she were his mother and Selene is a stray cat he’s brought back from the woods. She waits for him to explain himself.
Dorian doesn’t. Instead, he turns to the last member of the party, a slim young man with pale hair and even paler skin. “And this is Soren, my valet.”
Soren is the only one in the group who doesn’t smile. His face seems fixed in a solemn, severe expression, far too serious for his age. He looks like he could be anywhere between thirteen and twenty-three, though something about his awkward stance suggests he’s younger than Selene. His hair catches the light like morning mist.
The three of them stand before her, all expressions tinged with disbelief. For a moment, Selene is at a loss—both for words and for what to make of this unusual household.
“Welcome to Ebonrose Hall, My Lady,” Mrs. Everfrost says. “We are delighted to serve you.”
Dorian’s smile falters, as if the farce has gone on long enough. “Let’s get inside,” he says. “Soren, there’s a cat inside the carriage. Please see that she’s fed and brought up to Lady Selene’s chambers.”
“A cat?” Soren asks, as if Dorian has just announced he’s brought home a tiger instead.
“Yes, a cat.”
“But—”
Dorian gives him a swift, curt look, and Soren immediately falls silent. He heads straight for the carriage without another word.
They proceed inside.
Selene is struck immediately by an atmosphere of faded grandeur. The entryway is spacious, with high ceilings and dark wood panelling lining the walls, but it is dimly lit, with only a few sconces casting faint halos on the walls. The grand foyer has clearly seen better days; the floor is scuffed in places, and an almost invisible layer of dust clings to the edges of the carved mouldings. A faint smell of old wood and stone lingers in the air.
Before them, a set of dual staircases rises, their railings adorned with intricate carvings of roses and thorned vines. They sweep upward to a shadowy landing, where they meetbeneath an emblem embedded in the stone: a black iris entwined with a crescent moon and scattered stars. Beneath it, the original family motto has been scrubbed away, leaving only faint etchings that speak to a once-proud lineage now softened by time.
Mrs Everfrost, standing close by, clasps her hands as if to give a welcoming address. “Ebonrose Hall was completed in—”
